


The Writer & His Muse

by vivilove



Series: Career Day Romance [13]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And a bit of an eccentric, And his muse, And she also writes, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Sweetness, Jon is a Writer, Romance, Sansa is a Copy Writer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 02:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16076165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove
Summary: Jon Snow is a reclusive writer with a serious case of writer's block.  He needs a spark or perhaps...a muse.  In walks Sansa Stark, a copy editor recommended by his friend and publisher Sam when his wife Gilly (Jon's regular copy editor) is expecting, to help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattyshack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/gifts).



> So, four score and seven years ago (okay-it was three months), I started this one-shot for Kat based on her suggestion of a Writer/Copy Editor fic for this series. Somehow the one shot became 13K words and two chapters...I need build up, m'kay? But, I told myself I wasn't posting another stinking thing until I finished this and the good news it's done *throws confetti* I'm posting part 1 of this today and the rest very soon (as in the more sweet comments I get, the sooner it'll get posted because lbr...that's what I love about sharing.) 
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long to get this done for you, Kat, but I hope you like it!
> 
> I also have three WIP updates sitting in my files so I should be updating Moonlight, Neighbor and Who Else Would I Be? this coming week :D

 

Samwell Tarly tapped his pencil on the desktop of his home office and tried to keep his cool as Jon continued his pathetic rambling over the phone.

“I don’t know, Sam. My book’s not going anywhere. I can wait till Gilly returns from...”

“Wait? Why should your book wait simply because my wife’s having twins?”

“Well, she’ll have more important things to do than look over my manuscript in the coming months. And besides, I don’t know if I’d like working with anyone else. I have a method and Gilly’s…”

“You’re being ridiculous, Jon. Much as I love my wife, she is replaceable…in this capacity. I want you to be cooperative and give this woman a chance. I’ve been told she’s a very efficient copy editor. It’ll be no different than having Gilly there.”

“I’m sure it…”

“And I would remind you that you have a deadline to meet.”

“Is this the voice of my friend Sam or Samwell Tarly, my publisher?”

“In this instance, your publisher. Now, get off your agoraphobic arse…”

“I’m not agoraphobic. I’m not _afraid_ to leave the house. I just prefer not to.”

“Fine. Then, get off your reclusive keister and go meet Miss Stark for coffee so you can work out an arrangement with her to read over what you’ve got!”

“Alright,” he finally huffed after a long pause that made Sam wonder if Jon was still there. “I’ll meet her. Best wishes to you both and give Gilly my love.”

“Yeah, yeah. We’ll call you when the babies arrive. You’re going to be late if you don’t get going.”

Sam hung up the phone and scrubbed at his face. He was rather proud of himself. He didn’t think he’d ever been so forceful with Jon in his life although his father would’ve accused him of coddling his writers too much.

“See, Dad. I can be firm on occasion,” he said to the portrait on the wall.

Randyll Tarly may have had his hard-nosed ways of getting what he wanted out of writers but Sam had his own and no one at Tarly Publishing thought the business was doing any worse under Sam’s leadership. After five years as the company’s head, Sam was used to dealing with all manner of creative processes but he’d never met a writer who valued his privacy as much or clung so tenaciously to his rituals as Jon Snow.

Known only as Aegon Targaryen in literary circles, the young author had written some popular fantasy novels but it was his more probing fiction, _Into the Dark_ , an award-winning story about the afterlife, which had made him a critical darling.

And now, he was supposedly working on the follow-up to that piece, _Return to the Light._ But, it had been slow going with one bout of writer’s block after another and then a complete rewrite of what little he’d shown Sam.

The publisher side of him was concerned about deadlines and investments. However, the man was more worried about his friend. Jon had seemed to lose all his confidence in his abilities. He’d been downcast lately and Gilly had even fretted he’d lost his zip for life. He preferred to spend his nights denned up with his faithful canine companion Ghost instead of getting out and enjoying his success. It was almost as if he’d become the protagonist of his story; a broody bastard resigned to a life of duty…and celibacy.

Perhaps he needed a spark, a challenge, a little something to put the pep back in his step. And Sam thought Gilly’s suggestion of changing things up a bit for Jon was worth a shot.

“Did you get Jon to agree meet with Sansa?” his wife called from the sofa.

She’d come home exhausted again and Sam had finally put his foot down.

_Alright…I finally begged enough and she relented._

She was 34 weeks along, carrying twins, and Little Sam kept them both hopping as it was. There was no reason she couldn’t take some time off before the babies arrived. She deserved it. And some peculiar writers with their ‘methods’ could just lump it no matter how good a friend he was.

“Yes, he’s going to meet her now. Did you warn Sansa any?”

“Nope,” his wife grinned wickedly. “Did you give him a heads up? About Sansa?”

“No,” Sam said, his lips curling into devious smile. “He can thank us later.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa Stark contentedly blew the steam rising from her hot cocoa as she took a seat and glanced out the front window at the rain. She felt comfortably snug and smug to be indoors with her beverage as she had beaten the threatened deluge. Now, she’d chosen the ideal booth to watch the entrance of the coffee shop.

She glanced at the table top and decided to do a bit of restaging; moving the napkin holder, container of sweeteners and laminated menus as far from her personal space as possible before placing her own items where she wanted them. Napkin to the right. Phone and tablet to the left. If her place mat was a clock, the cocoa sat at 2 o’clock and her notepad and two pens, one black and one red, were dead center on 6. _Check_.

Her messenger bag, purse and umbrella were secured beside her on the vinyl seat. She’d arrived fifteen minutes early, well before the rain had begun, and _he_ was already ten minutes late. She glanced at her watch. _Eleven_. No matter. She was used to writers and their interesting notions of time.

She smoothed down her blue blouse and black skirt and patted down her long auburn hair which was currently swept back into a tidy bun this afternoon. She dipped her hand into her purse to retrieve her make-up mirror to check her lipstick. _Acceptable_.

She sat that way another five minutes, meaning to allow the cocoa to cool to the ideal temperature. _Warm, bordering on hot, but drinkable_.

She started to scowl at the placement of the objects before her. Perhaps she should put the tablet away. Or the phone. She could…

Just then, the bell over the coffee shop’s door jingled as a man entered, shedding droplets of water everywhere. He had no umbrella. He was decidedly disheveled from his drenching in jeans, a newsboy cap and a rumpled tweed jacket. She could only see him from behind but he definitely had that look…the look of a writer.

“Mr. Targaryen?” she called.

No response. Perhaps she had the wrong man.

But then, he slowly turned and hurried over to where she sat. “My apologies for my tardiness, Miss Stark,” he said, tossing down his wet cap onto her napkin whilst distractedly holding out his hand…his extremely damp hand. She pointedly stared at the cap and then his hand. His pale cheeks colored and he sheepishly wiped his hand off and moved his hat. “I do beg your pardon,” he said in a deep rumbling voice and Sansa took a moment to really look at him.

_Oh, dear. Gilly, you could’ve warned a girl._

“You’re Aegon Targaryen?” she asked with a level of incredibility that she would’ve been ashamed of if all her pistons had been firing properly.

Instead, she was cursing herself for sounding like a fool. Of course, he was! He’d come over here when she’d called his name and knew her name, for pity’s sake. She could only blame it on shock which wouldn’t be at all polite to admit. He simply wasn’t remotely what she’d imagined.

She’d devoured all his books since Gilly had asked if she’d be willing to take over for her. His fantasy novels were violent but not disgustingly so and there was enough romance between knights and fair maidens for her to swoon a bit over them in the privacy of her bedroom. But, it was his more recent work that had really captured her imagination and left her intrigued about the man who’d written it. There’d been no author’s photo on the back cover of any of his books. Googling hadn’t yielded any decent photographs either much to her surprise. So, she’d created her own image of what Aegon Targaryen must look like.

_A lonely and tortured soul writing late into the night, longing to make some connection with the world though he’d been hurt by it too many times to count…_

He looked not one bit like the white-haired, older gentleman she’d imagined who washed his hair but once a month, had teeth stained yellow from the nicotine and coffee he lived on and refused to wear shoes indoors or trim his toenails.

 _Yes, I have a rather overactive imagination. Sue me_.

But this man couldn’t be much past thirty, not much older than herself. How could he have possibly written five successful novels already? Sansa had written a few articles and some short stories but so far not attempted anything lengthier.

But back to Mr. Targaryen…

His hair was wet but it had definitely seen hair care products fairly recently. She glanced down at his feet to be certain. His boots looked well-worn but decent.

_His toenails might still be a disgrace._

Regardless, he was ludicrously handsome. She had figured he might wear glasses but somehow never imagined that wire frames could look so fetching on a person. His hair was dark and hung just past chin length. At present, it was practically in ringlets from the rain. He wore a beard and mustache which framed the most delicious-looking pair of lips she’d ever seen on a man. Then, there were his dark eyes…

 _Goodness, he’s gorgeous_.

She felt hot and a little flutter in her tummy as he gazed at her but she quickly tamped down those inappropriate feelings. There was no room for such funny business in a professional woman such as herself. In her line of work, she simply didn’t encounter men this good looking very often. That was all it was.

Then, she felt flustered in another way when she realized he’d not answered her stupid question. He was scowling slightly as he stared back at her. She’d already managed to make a poor impression.

“I beg your pardon for staring, Miss Stark,” he said as he brow cleared once more. “I am Aegon Targaryen but not really. It’s my pen name, you see. My name is Jon Snow.”

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry. I was not aware.”

“It’s alright. Sam and Gilly are very good to keep my secret. I don’t generally give my real name…especially for interviews and such.”

He gave her phone and tablet a skeptical look. _I knew I should’ve put them away_.

“Well, I’m not a reporter. I’m just a copy editor. Won’t you sit down and join me for a coffee, Mr. Snow?”

“Gladly, Miss Stark,” he replied with a friendly (and very appealing) smile.

Perhaps she’d managed to make a good impression after all.

 

* * *

 

 

“This is why we don’t leave the house,” Jon had grumbled to himself as he’d parked his truck after sitting in traffic for twenty minutes.

He'd reached behind the bench seat until he’d found an old cap that Pyp had left behind ages ago. He’d put it on before rushing through the rain to the entrance of the shop.

He had been sure that this would be a waste of time. Sam wanted a new book but Jon wasn’t sure he’d ever have one to offer him. He was blocked once again and rethinking everything from chapter three onward. The past six months had been a tremendous trial where inspiration only came in fits and starts and would abandon him again just as he thought he’d found his stride. The frustration with the entire endeavor was mounting along with his anxiety. Every time he saw Sam’s name on his caller id, he’d break out in a cold sweat. He didn’t think switching copy editors would help any. Gilly was so patient and understood his ways which were admittedly unusual.

He entered the coffee shop and was immediately tempted to play deaf and duck back out again when he heard someone calling for Mr. Targaryen. He hated his pen name…mostly because it reminded him of his father and that entire batshit crazy side of the family.

But then, he’d turned around and spied the owner of that voice.

 _Shit, Sam. You could’ve warned me_.

As his coffee and a bowl of soup arrived, he was now taking the opportunity to study Miss Stark again who was busy copying something down on her notepad.

Red hair, red lips, soft ivory skin and sparkling blue eyes, she was absolutely stunning. Every time she took a sip of her cocoa, she’d hum and the sound seemed to send a jolt straight to his, um…right through him.

_It’s been awhile, alright?_

She was also smartly dressed and very business-like, making Jon rue his current state. Not that he was ordinarily much of a dresser but he would’ve made more of an effort if he hadn’t taken so long with Sam on the phone agreeing to meet her.

He was freezing cold in his wet clothes inside the little coffee shop. He’d neglected to check the weather in his haste and the late September rain had caught him completely unprepared. But, he would suck it up and hide his shivering if it meant he could continue speaking with her.

Normally, Jon didn’t care for chit chat…or just talking to people…or people in general.

_Seems I’ve found an exception._

However, he was fully anticipating their conversation to come to an end very shortly.

“So, whenever you like, you can shoot me an email with whatever you have…”

“Email?” he sputtered just as he put his spoon in his mouth.

“Or send it by courier if you prefer.”

“Courier, um…Christ!”

The soup was too hot and burned his tongue but it was her statement which caught him off guard. He grasped his coffee but unfortunately it went down the wrong way and he was soon reduced to a choking, gasping mess. Miss Stark rose and started beating him on the back as tears filled his eyes and the other patrons stared.

_This is why we don’t leave the house! Dammit. You can’t even eat and drink properly in presence of a pretty woman!_

Once his wheezing ended, he tried again. “I’m sorry but didn’t Gilly explain my…methods to you?”

“Your methods? She didn’t mention anything.”

_Of course not. Didn’t want to scare you off. Oh, well. Here goes nothing…_

“First off, I don’t turn over my manuscript to anyone.”

“Of course not. A copy is perfectly…”

“No. I don’t make copies of my manuscript either.”

“No copies? At all?”

“Absolutely not. It stays with me until I am 100% satisfied that it’s what I want to see in print.”

Her brow furrowed and she started writing something down. “But…how does Gilly work on…”

“She comes to my house.”

“Your house? You mean she works in your home?”

“Yes. I am a bit of a hermit, if you will.”

“A hermit?”

“I prefer not to leave my house very often.”

“Very often? When you say very often...”

“This is the third time I’ve left the house this year.”

“But it’s…it’s September.”

“I know. Last year, I managed to make it to November,” he lamented. While Miss Stark was still taking that in, he decided to plunge ahead. _Like a band-aid. One swift move…rip_ _it right off!_ “Are you allergic to dogs?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid of large dogs or do you dislike them in general?”

“No but…”

“Good. Of course, Ghost will have to meet you too but I’m fairly confident he’ll like you.”

“I’ll have to gain your dog’s seal of approval?” she asked as her eyebrows raised a fraction of an inch.

“No! Well…sort of. He’s a good dog but he’s rather…he’s not quick to warm to strangers. It’s just best if you’re compatible is all.”

“Will this involve him urinating on me or humping my leg in any form or fashion? Because I’ll tell you right now, Mr. Snow, I’m a dog lover but there’s a line.”

“Oh, no! Ghost is a gentleman…or a gentle-dog. He’d never disrespect a lady unless he takes a set against her but I’m sure he’d let me know first if…” Miss Stark’s perfectly shaped ginger eyebrows climbed higher. Jon felt his face getting hot and rolled his eyes at himself. He wondered why she wasn’t already bolting for the door. _I know I’m a freak_. _You can say it._ But she didn’t say anything. She was back to taking notes. “So, uh…finally, I must insist you not use red ink.”

“Excuse me?”

“I hate red ink. I’m not fond of the color red to be honest. Except your hair. Your hair is very… _ahem_. Please, don’t use red ink.”

She read back over her notes with a scowl. “No copies allowed. Work in his home. Must like the dog and the dog must like me. No red ink,” she added to her paper.

She finished and laid her pen back down before looking him up and down. Jon felt like she was sizing him up…or taking an x-ray. He met her gaze but internally felt like shrinking before those sharp blue eyes as she passed judgment.

It was a shame. He’d liked her at once. There was something about Miss Stark that intrigued him. He had hoped that maybe they might just work well together but clearly he’d scared her off with his eccentricities.

“Well…it’s odd but acceptable. How soon would you like for us to begin?”

“You mean, you’re agreeing to work with me?”

“Yes, Mr. Snow.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, not realizing till that moment how much he’d feared her rejection. “Would you please call me Jon?”

“Certainly if you will call me Sansa.”

“Very well. Is tomorrow too soon, Sansa?”

Her pen was already poised above the notepad again. “What’s your address?”

 

* * *

 

 

To say that Jon enjoyed a sequestered lifestyle would be putting it mildly. He owned a comfortable log cabin nestled on a vast and secluded stretch of wooded property. From what Gilly had told her over the phone the night before, he apparently never left his home except when absolutely necessary and was on a first name basis with all the local delivery personnel for everything from major household necessities to his dog’s preferred brand of biscuits.

Sansa had also learned he’d purchased the land and cabin when his first book had become a bestseller, his sole outward nod to his newfound wealth. The cabin did not lack modern conveniences but, considering the spartan furniture within, Sansa suspected most of the décor was stuff he’d picked up second-hand in his college days. He drove an older model pick up, had a collection of fishing rods and wore clothes more reminiscent of a woodsman than a successful novelist when he was at home.

_A strapping young woodsman alone in the woods, denied female companionship for far too long and…_

Sansa sighed and stopped herself right there. She couldn’t start making up fantasies about Jon Snow if she was going to be working with him.

“So, where do you want me?” she asked when he’d ushered her inside.

His lips twitched for just an instant before he swallowed and pointed towards his kitchen table. “I usually work there. There’s a desk in my study if you prefer though.”

“The table will be fine.” On the table sat an old-fashioned Adler Typewriter. “Oh, do you collect antique typewriters?” Sansa asked. “I love antiques.”

“Um…that’s what I use…when I write.”

Sansa’s mouth fell open. She knew that typewriters still existed but she honestly didn’t think anyone used them anymore. Weren’t they all just antiques or conversation pieces now? _For Heaven’s sake, how does he make corrections on that thing?_

Jon scrubbed awkwardly at his beard. “I do own a computer of course but…my mother bought it for me when I was a teenager at a rummage sale after I told her I wanted to be a writer someday. Well, it was kind of a joke between us. It’s the same type as the one Jack Nicholson’s character uses in _The Shining._ ”

“ _The Shining_?” she squeaked. She’d seen it…once. She’d also read the book.

“Yes, you know… _‘Heeeere’s Johnny!’_ ” he said in an uncanny imitation of Nicholson as he picked up a baseball bat that happened to be lying on his couch.

Sansa’s eyes widened and her heart began to pound.

_A frustrated writer, twisted by too much time alone in his cabin one winter, starts hearing voices late at night when he’s writing. ‘All work and no play makes Jon a dull boy…’_

Sansa looked out the picture window at the nearby lake and woods. It was very picturesque…and reminiscent of several horror films. There was a stack of wood on the back porch. There was also an ax.

_I’m all alone here with him. No one knows his real name except Sam and Gilly. There’s no photos of Aegon Targaryen to be found. Jon Snow might be an alias as well. No one would find my body for ages out there. Did I even tell anyone I was coming here?_

She tried to still her trembling hands as she squared her shoulders and looked back at him. “Are you planning to kill me?”

“What?! No!” he cried. She eyed the baseball bat and he quickly set it down. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I’ll admit I have my quirks but I’m not a fucking psychopath.”

Sansa was immediately embarrassed. “I’m sorry! I have a very overactive imagination sometimes!” He scowled and she tried to laugh it off. He didn’t laugh with her. _God,_ _Sansa…that was horrible. This is why you’ll die alone._ She desperately latched onto another topic. “I’m, uh…I’m sure your mother is very proud of your success. I’ll bet she takes a good deal of pleasure in knowing you still use the typewriter she bought you.”

He frowned again but this was different. It was not the outraged frown from a second ago but one that spoke of loss. _Oh, no!_

He cleared his throat and his eyes sought the floor. “I’d like to think she’d be proud if she’d…”

He trailed off and she immediately crossed the distance between them, eager to make amends. She took his hand. He sort of jolted when she did. Perhaps she shouldn’t have touched him. She appeared to be doomed to bungling everything when it came to Jon.

“I am sorry about your mother, Jon. Forgive me for being insensitive.”

“You weren’t insensitive. You didn’t know.”

“Well, I still feel like an idiot, especially after my stupid paranoia.”

“You’re not an idiot.” He smiled which eased some of her discomfort.

“If I may ask…how long ago?” she asked, letting go of his hand.

“Ten years ago. Just before my first book was published.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You said that already…but thank you.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and Sansa suspected he didn’t wish to speak any more about his mother just now.

“Would you like for me to get started then?”

“Yes but there’s someone you need to meet first.”

“Of course. Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

 

When he’d awoke this morning, Jon had wondered if today would be a dismal disappointment after the hope he’d allowed himself to feel yesterday when he’d met Sansa. He occasionally grew excited after meeting a new person or finding a new interest and thought that perhaps their very existence might unlock all those words that were tucked inside his brain but could never seem to make it to the page.

He’d had that same stirring yesterday with Sansa. But when he’d returned home again, he’d sat down at his typewriter and his efforts had been fruitless and stale. Discouraged, he’d gone to bed early.

He’d risen and washed and gone fishing for an hour or two while he waited for the time when Sansa would arrive, praying that perhaps that spark might return with her mere presence.

He was not disappointed.

The instant he set eyes on her again, the words began to flow through his mind like a river that had broken through a dam. Even after her unexpected panic when he mentioned The Shining and his discomfort over the topic of his mother, his desire to start typing had not dimmed.

He discreetly took her in, mesmerized by the colors of her clothes and her hair.

Yesterday, she’d worn a blue blouse and blue had been his favorite color.

Today, she’d worn a pale yellow cardigan and he was quite certain that yellow was his new favorite color.

_Or maybe red…_

She’d worn her hair down today and he was startled by how badly his fingers itched to touch it. Like a siren’s call, her soft auburn locks beckoned him. He not only wanted to touch her hair, he wanted to smell it and let it slip between his fingers like spools of silk before he buried his face in it.

 _What the devil is wrong with you? Has it been that long?_ he wondered as he led her out to his back porch.

_YES!!! It’s been bloody forever!!_

Obviously so considering the surprisingly libidinous turn his mind had taken at her innocent question of ‘where do you want me?’ earlier. He’d eyed his sturdy kitchen table and been ashamed of the lustful bent his mind had taken.

Dirty thoughts aside though, Sansa was undeniably radiant standing in the morning sunlight as her hair glimmered like fire with a dozen different hues reflecting what had previously been his least favorite color. He wished he could compose a sonnet about it though poetry had never been his passion.

Since the age of twelve, he’d disliked the color red. He was ashamed of the reason as it was quite childish but he had only been a child when his dislike had been formed. Red had always been his father’s favorite color. And, when Jon had been younger and so very eager for whatever crumbs of attention he might receive from the man who’d sired him, he’d proclaimed red his favorite color as well in the hopes that it would please his extremely difficult-to-please father. But when his eyes had opened enough to realize what a neglectful, self-centered shit his father had been not only to Jon and his mother but to his wife who he’d cheated on with Jon’s mother and the children he’d fathered by her, he’d decided he no longer cared for the color.

And then, as a very young writer in his college days having first drafts of his works returned to him literally covered in red ink, he’d grown to detest the color red even more.

But not now perhaps. Not when it came to Sansa Stark’s lovely tresses at least.

He forced himself to turn away from her captivating beauty and whistled for Ghost.

“I should warn you. He’s not exactly your average dog. He’s an albino. He’s also part wolf.”

“Part wolf?”

“Yes, but not a werewolf or anything,” he said teasingly as he recalled her earlier remark. He hoped she wouldn’t object to a little teasing. He glanced over in time to see her lips twitch in amusement.

A patch of white appeared through the woods and he pointed it out. He heard her soft gasp when Ghost emerged from the brush and loped towards them.

Jon knelt and held out his hand to his faithful friend. He was surprised when Ghost gave him no more than a cursory sniff before immediately going to Sansa.

“Ghost,” he said warningly, afraid that perhaps he might appear aggressive and frighten her.

Without any outward sign of fear though, Sansa dropped to her knees just as he had and held out her hand. Ghost bypassed her hand and nudged her with his snout before he licked her face. Jon was astonished and felt an unfamiliar ache as he watched, transfixed by his normally aloof dog’s instant acceptance of Sansa. Even though Ghost had appeared to like Gilly, it had taken months before he would go to her for any attention whatsoever.

Sansa was giggling as Ghost continued licking her face, a melodious and infectious sound which made him wish to laugh, too.

“Better than him humping your leg or peeing on you?” he asked wryly instead.

“Much better,” she said, still laughing merrily as she affectionately scratched his ears. “He’s glorious.”

“Yes, quite glorious,” he agreed though he knew perfectly well he was not referring to his old friend.

Her eyes met his and he was struck by their particular shade of blue. _Cerulean blue_. It reminded him of sparkling waters or clear skies. It was calming and safe. It reminded him of childhood innocence and his mother’s gentle smile.

_Peace and comfort…and Sansa._

He had a new favorite color.

But even better, he felt that desire course through him again to sit down at his beloved Adler and write, stronger than ever.

As if she sensed his pressing urge, she stood and faced him. “Have I passed inspection?” she asked with a twinkle in her eye.

“More than.”

“Shall we begin then?”

“Yes. We will certainly begin.”

 

* * *

 

 

A month had passed and the pair fell into a comfortable routine. The writer pecking away at his typewriter and the copy editor combing through his manuscript at the kitchen table in companionable silence for the most part, though as the days passed, they found themselves speaking more and more often about things beyond work and sharing little bits about their lives and themselves with one another.

Five days a week, Sansa would arrive a little before nine and Ghost would greet her as soon as she got out of her car. Jon would be standing on the front porch with his hands shoved into the pockets of his blue jeans and wearing the day’s chosen flannel shirt.

_A lumberjack, a solemn but loving man, attentive to his woman’s needs, waits for his sweetheart to return to their mountain home in the…_

_God, Sansa! Don’t be such a ninny._

Much to the delight of her taste buds, Jon had quickly discovered her preference for tea or hot cocoa over the black coffee he drank. By her second morning there, his pantry was already stocked with a variety of teas for the mornings and hot cocoa for an occasional afternoon indulgence. There were even marshmallows and whipped cream available to be added to her cocoa the following day.

“ _Mmmm-mmm-mmm!_ Whipped cream, please,” she’d moaned loudly as soon as she spied it.

Poor Jon had dropped the mug he was holding. She supposed she might have startled him.

As for their actual working relationship, it hadn’t taken long for them to reach an accord. Sansa did her best to adhere to Jon’s preferences and Jon had learned to close his mouth and open his ears more often as she edited his work. Initially, he’d been stubborn about any changes or suggestions but, after an admittedly heated exchange or two, he’d grown more willing to hear her out. In short, they’d managed to make more progress in a month than some partners might reach in a year.

And perhaps it was not so very surprising. It might not have been apparent at first glance but, once they got to know each other a bit, they learned they were actually well suited to the other’s personality. Jon’s quiet ways and little quirks did not distress Sansa in the least which made him more relaxed. And her desire to please, to do everything just so, was appreciated by Jon but he also assured her that he was completely satisfied with her work, giving her the validation she sought.

When it was time for a break in their day, Jon would make them sandwiches or soup for lunch three days a week and once a week Sansa would bring a casserole to bake which they would eat for the other two days. Good food and good company along with the crisp autumn days and idyllic setting of the log cabin cast a golden sense of contentment over their time together as they worked.

And some days, when they were both in need of physical activity, Jon would suggest a walk in the woods with Ghost. Sansa treasured those times the most. He belonged outdoors every bit as much as Ghost, she thought and, when she was with Jon, she felt like she belonged there, too. Often times, Jon would offer his arm when she began to tire and Sansa secretly thrilled at the steadiness he leant her along the trails surrounding his property along with the opportunity to cherish the warmth of his body close to hers and inhale his heady, masculine scent.

Unfortunately, she feared their time together was drawing to a close.

She had already grown to detest five o’clock as it signaled the end of her day with Jon and Ghost. She no longer found much joy in returning to her small studio apartment with her quarreling neighbors on one side and her amorous ones on the other. The arguments from one set and loud couplings from the other only served to remind her of how lonely she’d been feeling of late. Her weekends at least were busy enough with her family but the weeknights…she no longer relished time away from work in the evenings because it meant she was no longer with Jon.

But now with only nine chapters of his book completed, there wasn’t much more editing to be done. She lamented the fact for it meant soon her and Jon’s arrangement would be coming to an end for the time being. She’d be back to working in offices and he’d be back to writing his conclusion in his seclusion, she supposed.

One day in late-October, she laid down her blue pen which Jon had requested she use today and stifled a yawn, rubbing at her eyes.

“Are you tired?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Oh?”

“My neighbors.”

“Fighting again?”

“No. They were quiet for once last night. It was the other ones,” she said as a flush crept up her neck.

She didn’t regret speaking frankly with Jon about her neighbors. He’d never met them and likely never would. They’d shared a laugh over lunch about it the other day. But now, she felt a keen sense of embarrassment. Could it be because in her bed last night whilst the woman next door was crying out rather loudly as the headboard of their bed jostled against the connecting wall and the man, whose name ironically enough was Don and sounded close enough through the barrier, grunted rhythmically, Sansa had closed her eyes and slithered one hand down her pajama pants to seek her own release as she softly called out a name which rhymed with her neighbor’s?

 _Don’t think about that now!_ her mind screeched as the rest of her face glowed scarlet.

“Oh. I see,” Jon said. Strangely enough, he appeared embarrassed on her behalf. “I’ll, uh…start on our sandwiches.”

He quickly stood and Sansa worried she’d offended him in some way with her yawning or tales of her neighbors. She thought she should apologize though she wasn’t sure for what exactly.

But before she could express herself, his phone rang.

“It’s Sam,” he grumbled. She knew he didn’t like being hassled over deadlines. Sam was incredibly patient but still a publisher. He answered with a pinched look on his face which was soon replaced by a boyish grin. “That’s wonderful, Sam! Congratulations to you both! Yes, she’s here. I’ll tell her!”

He hung up and related the news. Gilly had given birth to their twins last night, two little girls which they’d named Holly and Daisy. Mom and babies were doing well. Little Sam was excited to be a big brother and Big Sam was beside himself with joy.

“Oh! I wish we could go and see them!” Sansa squealed. “I love babies!”

“Well, Sam did say we could come ‘round if we liked but I’m not sure if…”

Sansa promptly closed her mouth to stop herself from begging. Jon didn’t like to leave home unless he absolutely had to. She knew this and accepted it. And, he probably didn’t care that much about seeing newborns who’d be wrapped up like little burritos and more than likely just sleeping…or crying. She could always go and visit after five. It’d give her something to look forward to once she left Jon’s tonight at least.

“Of course. I’ll help you make the sandwiches.” She hoped making herself useful would quash her flash of disappointment.

“We could though. It is a special occasion. It’s not every day my best mate’s wife gives birth. Would you want to go see them? With me?”

“Are you sure?”

He scrubbed at his face and gave her a sheepish grin. “I’d like to see them but I’m awful at making small talk over such things. I’d be worried that they secretly wished me gone but were too polite to say otherwise. Or that I’ll be too quick to leave and they’ll think I didn’t really want to come in the first place. I have trouble gauging such things.” She opened her mouth to protest that she thought he was quite in tune with other people’s feelings most of the time. He chuckled and said, “Perhaps I’ve managed to make you think otherwise, God only knows how, but I promise you, social visits of this sort are not a strong suit of mine. But if you were there, I’m certain you’d know exactly what to say and then I wouldn’t feel like such a nuisance.”

She could feel her whole face splitting into a huge grin when she grabbed her jacket and said, “Let’s go.”

 

An hour later, they were standing outside the nursery of the maternity ward, observing two tiny humans in plastic basinets through the glass. Wrapped up snug in their blankets with pink caps on, the babies were adorable. Well, Sansa certainly thought they were.

“I wouldn’t wish to alarm Gilly or Sam but their faces appear terribly red and squished looking,” Jon whispered.

Sansa snickered. “Have you never seen a baby this soon after birth before?”

“Well, no. I was traveling when Little Sam was born so I didn’t see him till he was a few weeks old. I didn’t have much close family growing up except my mum and occasional trips to my father’s house.”

She nodded sympathetically. She suspected it had been a rather lonely childhood from what tidbits he’d shared and she shouldn’t be surprised that he’d not been around too many babies considering all his friends save Sam were still unwed.

“Then, I’ll concede your point regarding their red and somewhat squished appearance. But, would you consider for a moment the journey they took less than 24 hours ago? I’m not a mother but I have it on good authority that it’s rather a tight squeeze. Take heart though, if my younger siblings and nephew are anything to go by, their features will begin to resemble those babies you see in commercials over the coming days.”

His shoulders started to shake with suppressed laughter and he nodded in agreement. “You’re quite right and I’m afraid I’ve proven that I’m not only clearly not a father but also just another stupid male.”

“You’re not remotely stupid, simply uneducated when it comes to babies. No need to worry there though. Most of us learn on the job.”

His eyes darted her way and when she met his intense gaze Sansa felt a shudder of longing. Something indefinable but very real seemed to pass between them. But when Sam came into the hallway to invite them back to see Gilly, Jon’s face was inscrutable once more.

 _Just your runaway imagination again, Sansa_ , she told herself.

Still…she had begun to harbor a few hopes deep in her heart.

Gilly was tired but glowing when they entered the room and Sansa gently hugged her friend and asked how she was doing and about Little Sam’s thoughts on his sisters. They were soon chatting away. Jon was slower to join in after his initial greeting but in time grew more at ease. Sansa hoped her presence was helping as he’d suggested.

_He was friends with them long before we met though. He was likely being too hard on himself._

Sam asked about Jon’s progress on the book until Gilly smacked her husband’s arm. “No work talk here.” She redirected the conversation to Ghost and stated that she missed Jon’s giant half-breed.

It occurred to Sansa then that Gilly had been Jon’s copy editor for years and perhaps they missed working together. At their current rate, Sansa didn’t think Jon would have much need of her past the next week or so. What if Jon took months to have another few chapters for her to edit? What if by the time he became inspired to finish he’d prefer to have Gilly working with him again?

_She wouldn’t even have to be finished with her maternity leave if she wanted to work with Jon._

Sansa could just picture Gilly bringing her babies along to Jon’s cabin, something that would be difficult to do at a publishing office. They’d probably make sandwiches together and could share laughs over Ghost’s reaction to the babies. Jon, being the kind soul that he was, would probably even purchase a playpen or something for the babies. He might even give over his spare bedroom to Gilly so she might rest or nurse as needed in between reading over his work.

She found herself inexplicably jealous at the image.

_Jealous of the babies? Jealous of Gilly working with Jon again? Jealous of the domesticity that you long for or…_

Suddenly, it was Sansa who grew quiet. She couldn’t seem to think of a single thing to say, try as she might. She was being awkward and mumpish, a shameful way to behave in front of others. She had the horrifying urge to cry as well. Were post-partum hormonal shifts contagious? She shook her head at such nonsense and wished she could come up with a polite way to excuse herself.

“Thank you for letting us come and visit,” Jon said just then. “But, if you don’t mind, Sansa, I think we should let these two get some rest before their little ones return from the nursery.”

“Oh, yes! Of course.”

Gilly started to protest but Sam cut her off. “Thank you. She’ll never come out and admit she’s exhausted but she does need to rest when she can. I’ll ring you in a few days to see how things are coming along?”

“Ring us to tell us of your daughters instead,” Jon joked before they left.

They rode down the elevator in silence but Sansa could feel his eyes on her. For once, their silence was uncomfortable.

“Are you alright?” he asked quietly when they climbed back into his truck.

“I’m fine. Weren’t they beautiful?”

“Oh, yes. All babies are beautiful. But, I suggested leaving because you seemed…” She feigned a look of utter confusion and he shook his head. “Forgive me. Shall we go home?”

“Yes, please.”

He started the engine and pulled out of the hospital parking lot. She looked out the window and hoped she wouldn’t start crying. She was miserable when forced to pretend everything was fine when it wasn’t. But why wasn’t it?

As they left town and saw fewer and fewer cars, a sense of panic overtook her. Why did the thought of leaving Jon frighten her so? She was struck very forcefully with the knowledge that she didn’t want to return to the publishing offices and never meet with Jon again. How had she managed to become so attached to this writer? To this man?

“Sansa?”

“Yes?” It would be polite to turn towards him. She couldn’t manage polite just yet.

“When you’ve finished editing what I’ve written…”

She saw her face crumple up in the reflection of her window. She ducked her chin and turned further away, desperate for him not to see.

“…would you be willing to keep coming to my house?”

Stunned, she turned towards him. “What?”

“Would you…why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying,” she sobbed.

He pulled over to the side of the road and slowly lifted one hand to her cheek. She felt the warm pad of his thumb sweep over her skin and shivered at his touch. He held it up.

“Are you going to tell me these aren’t tears, too?”

She hastily wiped her eyes and hiccupped as he drew a handkerchief from his pocket. He waited patiently for her to regain some composure.

“I thought you were going to tell me you didn’t want to work with me anymore.”

“Why?”

“I’m almost done. You won’t need me. And Gilly could return in a few months if she wants. I thought you might…” She gulped and pressed onward, “… _prefer_ her.”

“You thought I might prefer working with Gilly to you?” She nodded. His smile was gentle when he said, “Please, don’t repeat this but I prefer working with you.”

“To Gilly?”

“To anyone.”

Her heart began to thump and her voice cracked when she said, “You do?”

“Oh, yes. I just don’t know that I’ll have too much editing for you to do for a while.”

“But what will I do then?”

“You’ll…Christ, this is embarrassing.” He drew a deep breath and now it was his turn to look away. “Since you came to work with me five weeks ago, I’ve done more writing…more writing I’m actually proud of…than I had the previous six months or more. You…you inspire me, Sansa.”

“I do?” He nodded. “How?”

“Just…just by being you, I suppose. I can’t explain it. I see you, I see your smiles or what you’re wearing each morning, I see you greet Ghost and I can already feel the words coming together in my mind. It’s like you’re my…my…”

“Muse?”

He grinned and met her eyes again. “I suppose so. I know we’re not involved, not like one traditionally thinks of artists, musicians or writers and their muses being involved that is, but when you’re with me, I can write, Sansa. What’s more, I enjoy writing. At night when you leave, I find myself fumbling again but during the day when you’re with me, everything seems to click. Granted, I’m not fast. I think my words through carefully before I ever touch my typewriter but…have I frightened you?”

“No.” The last of her tears had dried up and her heart was hammering with a giddy sense of relief and something else. “Not at all. I like working with you. I enjoy your company.”

“You’re being kind,” he said skeptically.

“I am kind but I am also being honest.”

“You are always kind, Sansa. I had hoped…I would very much like to believe you enjoy my company half as much as I enjoy yours.” He offered his hand and she accepted it. His eyes were soft and filled with a vulnerability she recognized. “Please, don’t misunderstand me when I speak of muses. I am only asking for your companionship for however long you’re willing to give it. But, would you be willing to stay on with me? I’ll pay you for your time and…”

“I’ll stay,” she answered at once.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unfortunate gas leak leaves Sansa in need of a place to stay and there's a wedding to attend as well. Later, Sam will be frustrated by a blizzard. All aboard the Trope Town Express! I'll be your conductor ;)

 

“Here?”

“Yes…if you don’t mind,” he answered, enchanted by the way the afternoon sunlight illuminated her as it poured through his picture window behind her late one November afternoon. He’d turned his typewriter so he could face her as he worked. She tucked her feet up and under herself and opened her book. “Beautiful,” he murmured under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking through some dialogue.”

She gave him an encouraging smile before her eyes returned to the page before her.

This was what he most often asked of her and he hoped she didn’t mind. She didn’t appear to. She would read and he would watch her for a time and then write. And when the words came hesitantly, he’d watch her some more.

He hazarded a glance at the clock over his sink and wished he hadn’t. Nearly 4:30. She’d be going before too long. He didn’t think he could loathe 5 o’clock any more than he already did but each day he wound up detesting it just a bit more.

Asking her to stay had not been as difficult as he’d feared. A gnawing sense of anxiety had filled him for days prior to asking. He was certain Sansa would finally decide that Jon Snow was too peculiar by half and leave him. But she hadn’t. She’d appeared as relieved to stay as he was to have her stay.

However, the month that had passed since then had only increased his desire for her company…and his desire for her in other ways.

She was beautiful and she had certainly breathed new life into his writing as well as into his quiet existence but by now he was forced to acknowledge (at least to himself) that there was far more to his feelings for Sansa than her looks or his creative needs.

Her physical beauty was only the tip of the metaphorical iceberg. She was thoughtful and sweet. She possessed a clever mind and a loving heart. She was good company who made him laugh. She was also an attentive listener who he found himself willingly baring his soul to little by little. Much like the protagonist of his tale, he’d felt as though he’d been lying dormant for months or even years and Sansa seemed to be the key to bringing him back.

_A curious notion_ , he thought and began pecking away again. _More than just a mission…a person who gives his life after death some meaning again._

He stopped for a moment to compose his rapidly swelling tide of thoughts and glanced at Sansa again. Ghost had padded over to her to receive a scratch behind his ears. Her hand dropped from her book in an instant to oblige. He watched her lips turn upwards into a faint smile before she returned her attention to the book and his heart twisted with tenderness for her.

_If I confessed that I’m falling in love with you, what would you say? Would you stay with me or run away?_

His romantic past had not been blissful nor very extensive. From what she’d shared, neither had hers. It wasn’t that his had been marred by tragedy or he’d been horribly misused but rather that he’d never found that deeper connection which he sought. When he’d broken things off with his last girlfriend, he’d told her she deserved better than him but not truly explained. It would’ve seemed cruel to tell her that he’d rather live a solitary life than continue to pretend he felt something for her that he simply didn’t. He’d started to believe that was to be his lot in life.

But with Sansa, there would be no need to pretend. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman and more and she made him want to be everything she’d ever desired in a man.

Her phone chimed, breaking in on his musings as he typed. She picked it up, her graceful movements catching his eyes and stilling his fingers once more.

She scowled and he could not help himself from inquiring. “Is something wrong?”

“No…well, yes.” He raised his eyebrows. “It’s nothing,” she smiled before tucking her phone away again.

He’d been spending hours and hours of his week with Sansa for over two months now. He knew better. He rose from his seat and went to join her on the sofa, leaving the proper space between them that friends or acquaintances would keep while wishing he could draw closer.

“I suspect it’s more than nothing.”

“Alright, it is,” she sighed. “That was a text from my landlord. There’s been a gas leak detected in our complex. It’s not in my building but to be safe we’re all being asked to relocate until it’s fixed. He said I could come and pick up a few necessities but then I’ll be kicked out for a few days.”

“That’s horrid. Where will you go?”

“Well, I’m luckier than most, I suppose. I can stay with my sister or my parents.”

“But don’t they live nearly thirty miles away?”

“Yes. It’ll increase the length of my commute but…”

“Stay here!” he blurted out. Her eyes widened in surprise. “I mean, if you would be willing, I would be happy for you to stay here.”

He could see the doubt. He could also see that her keen mind was considering the convenience of his offer.

“I…are you sure, Jon? I’d hate to impose.”

_Are you kidding? I’d invite you to move in if I didn’t fear it’d scare the hell out of you._

“You’d be no imposition at all. Ghost and I would enjoy having a house guest for the first time in…well, ever.”

She giggled at that. “If you’re sure you don’t mind…it’d only be for a few days.”

“I don’t mind. You could stay as long as you like.”

“I’ll be out of your hair some of this weekend at least.”

“Oh?” His stomach sunk like a lead balloon. He’d been looking forward to having as much of her company as possible. And what was this weekend? Was it just a family function or did she have a date? Did he dare ask? “Big plans?” He dared.

“An old friend from college is getting married and invited me to her wedding.”

“A wedding,” he repeated with a shudder. She laughed and he realized he should probably explain himself. “I have nothing against marriage, mind you. It’s just that functions such as weddings can be rather…”

“Yes, I understand you,” she said sweetly.

_You always do._ “Are you attending it…with anyone?”

She frowned and picked at a loose thread at the hem of her plum-colored sweater. That hue of purple was certainly his favorite today.

“No. I’m not exactly looking forward to it either. My ex-boyfriend will likely be there since he’s friends with the groom.”

The ex-boyfriend. She’d only mentioned him a time or two but Jon already hated him sight unseen.

“But you’re going anyway?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t want to let my friend down.”

“No, you wouldn’t do that, I know.”

She bit her lip and clasped her hands together. “Anyway…thank you, Jon. This is very generous of you. I know how much you value your solitude.”

“You’re welcome. To be honest, my solitude has lost some of its appeal of late. Or rather I prefer sharing my solitude now. I like having you here, Sansa. I like it a great deal.”

“I like being with you."

There was a palatable tension in the air as they sat there smiling at one another. He wondered what she’d do if he crossed the distance between them to cup her cheek or run his fingers through her hair like he longed to. He wondered if she’d mind if he pressed his lips to hers.

Her eyes were searching his face just as his were doing with hers but then he noticed how they flickered towards his typewriter. He feared she might be growing uncomfortable with his close proximity.

“Right. I’ll go and…write.”

To his surprise, he saw disappointment flash in those blue eyes. Had he misread things? Probably. He stood and wondered how he might please her. He shut his eyes when he thought of something before swallowing his trepidation and turning to face her again.

With just the merest tremble, he gulped and asked, “So, when is the wedding exactly?”

“Oh, it’s Saturday evening. It’s going to be quite posh from what I…Jon?”

He shrugged and said, “My best suit can’t stay in mothballs forever.”

“I can’t ask you to go.”

“You haven’t. I’m offering.”

“You don’t have to do this for me. I know how much you hate leaving home,” she protested though her cheeks were now a lovely rosy pink. Pink was simply the best. He thought her smile might melt even the hardest heart and Jon’s heart was decidedly the opposite of that.

“I do _occasionally_ leave the house.” She smirked at him. “I’ve been known to leave this house for special occasions.”

“It’s not particularly special to you.”

“It’s important to you. That makes it special to me.”

He heard her sharp inhale and hoped she understood him now but she only said, “You’re sure?”

“I’m positive.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa laid down that night in Jon’s guest room after putting away the clothes and personal needs she’d managed to hastily grab in the five minutes the gas company had allowed her in her apartment.

She stared at the ceiling, trying to compose her fluttery tummy and overactive imagination as she listened to the faint but familiar click-clacking of Jon’s typewriter. She wondered if he often wrote at night.

_Does he write all night? Or does he ever lie in bed and think of me as I think of him?_

_Late at night, the lonely writer pours out his heart and soul to the woman he loves through his typewriter.  Each night, he promises himself that tomorrow he'll show it to her, show her the words that he can't speak.  But every morning, he disposes of the evidence of his pining..._

_God, Sansa...how tragic that sounds._

She had her own car but he’d offered to drive her to her apartment shortly after their conversation that afternoon. Then, he’d suggested pizza for dinner once they’d finished getting her things.

“Sounds good as long as you allow me to treat you,” Sansa had insisted as she pulled out her phone. “Ham and pineapple or sausage and peppers this time?”

She’d already been opening the app as she’d felt his hand close over hers, his touch making her pulse skip.

“I’m not sure yet. Maybe we could just go eat there.”

Sansa had pretended it was nothing out of the ordinary for them to go someplace to eat rather than have food delivered to his house. But it was _completely_ out of the ordinary!

“Gilly?” she said softly into the phone. “Are you awake?”

“I’m nursing twins, Sansa. I’m always awake.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? You didn’t do this to me. That was my husband. And he’s going to hurry up with that glass of water I asked for if he ever wants to touch me again.” Sansa snickered as she heard Sam’s ‘Yes, dear!’ in the background. “What’s up?”

She’d already told Gilly about Jon asking her to stay, about him calling her his muse. She’d also admitted some frustration over being his completely platonic muse. Gilly knew which way the wind was blowing at least when it came to Sansa’s feelings. Gilly had also said she doubted things would remain platonic if Sansa didn’t want them to but she’d been too hesitant to hope or act. Jon seemed interested in more at times but at others she thought perhaps he was only lonely and just enjoyed their friendship.

But after today…

“If I told you I’m staying at Jon’s the next several days while a gas leak is being repaired, what would you say?”

“Well, I’d say Jon is very kind…” Sansa sighed. _I knew I was getting ahead of myself_. “…but I’d also say I’ve never known Jon to invite anyone to stay at his cabin since I’ve known him.”

“And what if I told you he took me to a restaurant for dinner tonight?”

“Jon? Jon Snow took you out to dinner?”

“It was just pizza.”

“That wasn’t delivered to his home?!”

“Well, he said he couldn’t decide when I started to order online. He was rather stubborn about the bill.”

“With a man like Jon, I’d call that a date.”

She huffed a laugh. “And if I told you he voluntarily offered to take me to a wedding this weekend, what would you say?”

Sansa heard a muffled squeal of delight and could not contain a slight giddy shriek of her own. But then she also heard choking sounds. “Hang on,” Gilly hacked and gasped. Sansa patiently waited as she heard Sam’s voice and then a baby crying and more coughing.

Sam’s voice came on the line. “I’m not entirely sure what got my wife so excited just now but her water went down the wrong way.”

“I figured. I’m sorry to dis-”

“She did write something down for me to repeat but I’m going to pretend I don’t have the foggiest notion who or what you’re talking about.”

“What were her words of wisdom?”

“She wrote, ‘It’s love. Bang him.’”

Her eyes grew round like saucers and her mouth became a perfect O. With a mortifying blush, she thanked Sam and hung up.

_It’s love._

Was that possible? Or was Gilly just being overly optimist on her behalf? God, how she hoped Gilly was right.

_Bang him_.

She’d sure like to. She’d like to do that very much.

Knowing she’d never fall asleep with such a whirl of thoughts racing through her mind, she decided to leave the bedroom and join Jon. She reached for her robe and then decided to leave it off. Her pajamas were not indecent.

He’d built a fire earlier and Ghost was sprawled out on the hearth rug beside it.

Jon’s head popped up from the typewriter. “Did you need something?” he asked solicitously.

“No. I just decided I’m still wide awake. Am I disturbing you?”

“Not in the slightest. May I make you some cocoa?”

“Please.” She knew better than to oppose him making it for her and took a seat.

He’d shed his flannel and was in a t-shirt and soft cotton pants she’d never seen before. She suspected he slept in them. He was wearing wooly socks as he headed to the kitchen to heat some milk. His curls were messy and his glasses were sliding down his nose. He looked adorable…and incredibly sexy.

_Focus, Sansa._

“Do you often write at night?” she asked once he’d prepared the cocoa and come to sit beside her with a mug for himself.  He'd remembered to add plenty of whipped cream, just the way she liked it.

“No, not typically. Not in ages anyway. But tonight…” He trailed off and gave her a sheepish grin.

“Because I’m here?”

“I think so.  Creepy?”

Her lips twitched and she sipped her cocoa to stop herself from squealing like a school girl with her first crush.  "Not remotely," she hummed.

It was peaceful in the dark of night, alone in his cabin. She had to stop her overactive imagination from running away from her. But here was the thing with Jon. He was very handsome and she wanted him but she wanted more than that. She wanted to be with him, no matter what they were doing. She enjoyed quiet moments like this. They were something to be savored.

They talked quietly together about his writing…and then hers.

“I didn’t know you were a writer,” he said and she could tell he was a little hurt she’d never mentioned it.

“I’m not a writer,” she demurred. “I’ve written a bit here or there for some publications and…”

“I would argue that makes you a writer.”

“Well, I’m apparently a better copy editor. No one seemed too eager to pay me to keep writing.”

“What do you want to write?”

“Oh, I wrote some think pieces about the environment for…”

“No. I didn’t ask about those. I asked what do you _want_ to write. What would you write if you could write anything?”

She sat her mug down and considered. She knew what she would write if she could but she also feared admitting it. “You’ll laugh.”

“Why would I laugh? Do you wish to write comedy?”

“No. I…I’d write a romance if I had the time.”

“A romance?”

“I knew you’d laugh.”

“Was I laughing?”

“No.” He wasn’t. It was her own self-doubt and fears getting in the way. “It’s not very original, I know.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Thousands of people have written romance.”

“Thousands of people have painted and sculpted. Thousands of people have composed symphonies and thousands more have written love songs. Are all future generations to stop creating because someone’s already done something?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“Would you like to write? Here?”

“I thought I was supposed to look pretty and sit by your window and be your muse.”

“Sansa, you’re my muse simply by being you. I can draw inspiration from your presence whether you’re sitting here looking ravishing in the afternoon sunlight or you’re sitting next to me at the table working on something…perhaps something you’d like to share with the world someday.”

“Ravishing?”

“Devastatingly so.”

Her whole face felt warm as her shoulders shook with quiet laughter but her heart sang with unrestrained joy. “Thank you, Jon.”

“So, you’d be willing to try and write here?”

“Perhaps.”

He nodded, accepting her response and then returned to his typewriter. She laid down and pulled a blanket over herself. The steady pecking of his typewriter, Ghost’s snores and the crackling fire were somnolent sounds. Her eyes grew heavy. She awoke at the warm touch of his hand on her shoulder.

“Time for bed,” he said, his voice gruff with his own drowsiness.

She murmured sleepily and allowed him to help her to her room. She sighed contentedly when she laid down and he covered her up. She drifted back off, dreaming of a sweet, gentle kiss on her forehead from the man she loved.

 

* * *

 

 

_“You’re sure?”_ she’d asked about attending the wedding.

_“I’m positive,”_ he’d replied.

 

_I’m positive I love you_ , he thought as Sansa left the guest bedroom a couple of days later wearing a sleeveless floor-length red satin wrap dress and heels with gold earrings dripping from her ears.

“I’m sorry about the color. It was the first suitable thing I could lay my hands on when they let me in the apartment the other day.”

Jon had been standing there slack-jawed staring at her. “The color?” It sounded suspiciously close to a whimper the way it came out.

“I know you’re not fond of red. I’m not exactly pleased to be going to a wedding wearing red, mind you, but Myranda is hardly the sort to take it amiss. You look very handsome by the way.”

“Better than my normal attire?”

“I like your normal attire but you do clean up quite nicely.”

“Thank you. And I hope you’ll permit me to say that red might be my new favorite color…at least on you. You're breathtaking, Sansa.” If he lived to be a hundred, Jon didn’t think he’d every see something quite so lovely as Sansa’s smile after he said that. “Um…shall we go?”

 

The wedding did nothing to change Jon’s opinion about how little he liked such events. However, Sansa’s social graces and charm as they conversed with others throughout the night was delightful to observe first hand. He was impressed with how she managed such things.

_I’d likely be hiding in the corner or hoping to meet a friendly dog to devote my attention to if I were on my own here._

Her ex-boyfriend had approached her with a hopeful gleam in his eyes but, once she’d introduced Jon, the man had become churlish and quickly made his excuses to depart again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t clarify our relationship,” she said with an embarrassed shrug.

“He didn’t deserve a clarification from what you’ve told me.”

“I believe he hoped I’d arrive alone, get tipsy and he wouldn’t have to go home alone.”

“Get as tipsy as you like. You’re coming home with me.”

Her eyes widened and he couldn’t believe he’d said it so firmly...so possessively. But in the next instant, they were laughing together over it and things were as natural between them as always.

Later though, he spied her ex again at the reception with his hands all over one of the bridesmaids.

“Some things never change,” she murmured.

Sansa had pointedly been ignoring the man but there was a bitterness in her tone and he realized the cause, proving his earlier suspicions.

_A unfaithful boyfriend, a philanderer. Completely unworthy of her…or any woman._

“Would you care to dance?” he asked to distract her.

“Does Jon Snow dance?” she asked, her eyes lighting up with pleasure once more.

“He does for you.”

Swaying together on the dance floor, he relished the chance to wrap his arms around her. Song after song, he held her close and grew bolder. When the last song started, he finally took the opportunity to nuzzle into her hair. He inhaled the rich scents of citrus and coconut.

“Are you smelling my hair?” she laughed.

“I am. I’m sorry. It’s irresistible to me.”

“Just my hair?” she asked teasingly.

“No, not just your hair. All of you,” he answered before pressing his lips to hers. She startled and drew back and he wished he could kick his own ass. “Sansa, I’m sorry. That was…”

She was breathing rapidly in and out. She looked confused. “Did you mean that?”

“Did I mean I’m sorry for kissing you rather suddenly? I am.” Her face fell. “Did I mean to kiss you? I did.” It brightened somewhat. “Did I mean you’re irresistible to me? Absolutely. I’m…” Her smile was radiant and he only hesitated for a moment before plucking up his courage to say it. “I’m in love you.”

She stepped back into his arms and his heart soared. “Say that again.”

“I love you, Sansa.”

“And not just because I inspire you to write?”

“Oh, no. I love you for who you were, who you are and for everything you’re going to be.”

“That’s…that’s incredibly sweet.”

“Sweet,” he repeated hollowly as he danced upon the knife’s edge. She had not said it back. He should never have allowed himself to hope that…

“I love you, too, Jon.”

He wasn’t sure which one of them moved first. Maybe he did. Maybe she did. Maybe they both did. It didn’t matter. One moment, they were facing each other on the dance floor and the next Sansa’s lips had parted under his as he kissed her.

Slow and tentative at first but then she moaned softly and he was lost. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss, drinking her in and drowning in her. She stumbled backwards slightly and he grasped her waist, pulling her firmly up against him. All the while, he continued kissing her hungrily.

Someone nearby loudly cleared their throat and clucked their tongue at them. Vaguely, it registered that they were making a spectacle of themselves on the dance floor. Jon didn’t give a shit at present and only regretted that they weren’t back at the cabin. But Sansa’s cheeks flamed and he pulled back panting as he rested his forehead against hers.

“Should we…” he breathed against her mouth.

“Take me home, Jon.”

 

* * *

 

 

_‘It’s love. Bang him.’_

 

She blushed to recall her friend’s words. Sansa was not ordinarily the sort of girl to fall into bed with a man after their first official date but hadn’t this been building for much longer than that?

“What?” he asked with a grin.

“I’ll tell you later,” she promised.

The drive home was a bit of a blur. Her mind was still buzzing from his kisses and his words and the entire evening. She knew he didn’t care for the wedding but he’d gone for her. He’d stayed by her side throughout it all. He’d danced with her and been so handsome in his black suit.

_And he loves me._

She’d not imagined that.

When the truck pulled to a stop, she waited for him to come around to open her door. She was still wearing his suit jacket which he’d draped around her as they’d exited the reception. Taking her by the hand, he walked her up the front steps she’d walked up dozens of times by now but never with so many butterflies in her tummy. He unlocked the front door and ushered her in before closing it behind them.

He scratched the back of his neck uncertainly, his eyes darting from her to the sofa. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want.”

“I appreciate that, Jon…but I’m afraid I’m quite desperate for you to make love to me tonight.”

At that, he pulled her to him so quickly and unexpectedly that she had to brace herself against his chest. His lips were on hers in an instant, kissing her with fiery passion as she kissed him back. She clung to him with a whimper. Her hands fisted into his dress shirt and his were already in her hair, undoing her artfully arranged up-do in a heartbeat. She couldn’t have cared less as he devoured her.

And then he parted from her just as suddenly. He cradled her face gently in his hands as if she was made of spun glass. His eyes were dark and intense before he placed one more tender kiss on her lips.

"Sansa?" It was a question, a moan and a plea.

"Bedroom.”

That was all it took. Jon swept her up into his arms and carried her to his bedroom. She wrapped her arms around his neck with a small screech.

Once they reached his room, he sat her back on her feet and they slowly started to undress one another between more kisses. His hands slipped through her hair and down along her sides, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through her before he spun her around to unzip her red dress. She leaned her head back with a mewl. She felt his whiskers tickling her neck while he peppered her flesh with soft kisses.

When she was down to just her underthings, she turned back towards him, helping him unbutton his shirt. He yanked off his undershirt and her fingers traced his sculpted chest and abs.

“You’re gorgeous.”

“No, that’s you,” he argued.

“Stubborn man.”

“But truthful.”

He tilted her chin up to kiss her some more. His tongue touched hers and she was lost in his kisses all over again.

“Do you have any condoms?” she asked when she started unbuckling his belt.

“Yes. I tend to stock up on things to save having to run to the store,” he grinned. “Even things I’ve not needed in a while.”

She laughed and walked backwards towards his bed, unhooking her bra in the process.

His mouth parted in the most flattering way when her breasts were bare. “Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groaned. He was quickly upon her again.

She fell backwards onto the mattress as he followed her down, chuckling. She enjoyed caressing his shoulders, his arms…all of him. He was so strong, and his body was solid against hers. They just fit together. He cupped her breasts, swiping a thumb over her nipple and making her squirm with need.

“Please, Jon.”

They wasted little time ridding themselves of the rest of their clothes after that. His cock was hard and hot against her thigh as they kissed some more. She spread her legs to encourage him. He got up on his knees and grabbed the condom from his bedside drawer.

Once he was covered, he laid back down on top of her, his eyes studying her face as if he meant to memorize her every feature. His weight felt comforting and delightful on top of her.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you. Now, make love to me,” she said, grasping his cock and giving him a few strokes.

He growled playfully and moved her hand away. “You need to stop that or this will be over very quickly.”  He centered his cock and looked up at her, waiting for the final word, she supposed.

“Yes.” She rolled her hips and moaned for him.

“God, yes.” He entered her in one fluid thrust, filling her completely. “Oh, fuck…Sansa. I’m afraid this is going to be over far too quick,” he swore as he began to move.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper. He kissed his way down to her nipple as his hips began to snap in time. She arched her back, eager for the additional stimulation. His hot and hungry mouth was only adding to her fervor as his cock moved within her tight heat.

Moving in sync, their bodies slick with perspiration, she was nearing her release already. His brow was furrowed in concentration and she suspected he was right there, too.

“Oh, Jon…” she sighed as stars began to dance behind her eyelids.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” he husked. “Sweet, sweet Sansa. I want to see you fall apart for me.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “Don’t stop…please…don’t stop,” she begged just as she felt that wonderous tightening followed by the inevitable falling and floating release of her climax. “ _Ohhhh_ , yes!”

She felt his movements stutter to a stop before he shuddered and came with her.

Panting breathlessly, he collapsed beside her soon after and pulled her to him. “Will you stay with me?” he asked, lacing their fingers together. “Even after the gas leak is repaired…would you be willing to stay?”

“For how long?”

He kissed her sweetly on the tip of her nose and his eyes were sincere when he said, “For forever if you like.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Two Months Later**

 

Jon Snow could practically picture Samwell Tarly tapping his pencil on the desk of his home office and trying to keep his cool as he listened to his friend’s pathetic rambling excuses over the phone.

“So, how’s Gilly and the kids?”

“They’re perfectly fine which I suspect you already know as they just came and visited you and Sansa last week.”

He smiled deviously, knowing that his friend couldn’t see him. “Look, Sam…it’s not like I could’ve predicted this blizzard.”

“They’ve been predicting it for days!”

“Well, you can take comfort in the fact that as soon as I can dig my way out, I’ll make a trip to your office especially for you and deliver the finished product at last.”

“Sansa told Gilly she’d finished editing it three days ago!”

He should’ve known she’d brag about him finishing at last. Jon’s eyes flitted over to his girlfriend who was diligently tapping away at her laptop at the moment. She was wearing one of his flannels, wooly grey knee socks and a pair of cerulean blue panties. Nothing else.

_That flannel has always been my favorite. And, that particular shade of blue…well..._

“We had to quibble over a couple of her edits.” He caught her smirk and his cock twitched recalling their heated, breathless debate that had wound up with them both just breathless. “Sansa won out in the end of course.”

“Shocker,” Sam deadpanned. “I’m sure you gave her quite a fight for two seconds before you tucked tail and bared your soft underbelly. Sansa also told Gilly the book is marvelous and bound to be a huge best seller.” Jon swelled with pride over Sansa describing his book as marvelous. “So, when can I have it?!”

“Soon. Just as soon as…”

“Don’t give me ‘as soon as I can dig my way out’ nonsense! We both know if Ghost had so much as a hangnail you’d be hauling him to the vet in that truck of yours, blizzard or no blizzard.”

He could hardly argue with that.

“Did Gilly mention what Sansa’s working on?” he asked instead. He watched her head pop up, her blue eyes reminding him of a frightened hare at the moment. She started chewing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. “It’s lovely, don’t you think?”

“Yes, she shared the first five chapters that Sansa emailed. It is lovely and I’m definitely interested in reading more…especially from a writer who doesn’t take for-bloody-ever to send me anything!”

“Excellent.”

“You know, Jon…if you’re so concerned about road conditions, I could send a courier out to…”

_Oh, no_. He held the phone three feet away. “What’s that, Sam? I’m afraid I’m losing you. Cell service can be spotty out here.”

“Jon Snow, you are the worst liar I’ve ever-”

Sansa started giggling as he ended the call and tossed down his phone. He patted the empty space beside him on the sofa. She rose to join him, the unbuttoned flannel giving him delectable glimpses of her creamy skin and even an occasion flash of a rose-tipped nipple. She curled up next to him and he wrapped his arms around her.

“Sam liked your chapters. He’s interested in more.”

“Really?” she asked so sweet and hopeful.

“Yes, really. I told you it was good.”

He nuzzled into the curtain of her auburn hair and kissed her neck. She relaxed, taking comfort in his assurances and affection just as he took comfort in hers.

They were content for a time to listen to the fire crackling in the hearth over the howling winds as the world outside their cabin grew whiter and whiter.

“Should I let you get back to writing?” he asked, his voice low and husky with want.

“No,” she replied with a coquettish smile. “I’m afraid I’m blocked again at the moment.”

“Blocked?”

“It’s time for them to make love at last but I’m struggling to get the words to flow just right.”

“Oh, that’s too bad. Is that anything I could do to help with that?” he asked as his devilish grin took over.

From her fictional pair’s first kiss, Sansa had claimed he was her inspiration when it came to writing those parts.

“I’m quite certain you can.”

Eagerly, he pulled her into his lap and relished her delighted yelp.  She straddled his hips as he rained kisses along her neck and collar bone.  He placed his hands on her hips marveling that this woman was his.   

He closed his eyes and she carded her fingers through his hair as she sighed, “O Muse, sing in me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the story! Thanks again to Kat for the suggestion and a big thank you to Natalie for getting me past my own writer's block in this chapter! 
> 
> I do love writing this series. I rarely accept prompts (I'm already covered over in fics) but for this series, I will occasionally. So if you have a Career Day Romance suggestion, you can put it in a comment here or message me on tumblr @vivilove-jonsa. Just keep in mind that I may be slow to fulfill it even if it strikes my fancy but if I do write it, I'll gift it to you :)


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